


Wasteland's Caress

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Dark, FebuWhump2021, M/M, Mindfuck, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture, X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29323176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Like a caress, warm and beckoning. In its gentleness, it was a mark left by the unexpected complementing nature of Erik’s unwilling yearning and Charles’s sincere offering.You are not alone.He wouldn't forget that."Or, things go wrong in Cuba, and Erik has a choice.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Kudos: 10
Collections: My Febuwhump2021





	Wasteland's Caress

Erik couldn’t feel the thrum of metal. There, in that plastic cage, he was powerless. The comforting calling of his gift was gone, and he remained defenseless, at the mercy of his captor…

Only, Sebastian Shaw wasn't one for displaying mercy. And even if he were, Erik wouldn't want it. He preferred the agony and brutality. It was straightforward, he was always ready to reject it and lash out at who hurt him, to bring destruction upon their door—power at his command to bend the metal, drive it through a beating heart, twist it around a throat, to call for the iron in their blood.

There was one new thing that he felt now—well, not new, but an emotion that he hadn't felt _quite like this_ is a long time. 

New guilt. 

He still felt the guilt over Mama—Erik would forever carry that burden… his traitorous power that _didn't stop the bullet_ … 

…that wasn’t new.

That guilt had been cultivated over decades, it almost had a life of his own—siphoned from Erik’s, in his determination, in devotion...

For so long he had been alone, using his rage as both a weapon and a shield against the world. Until… until words were spoken directly into his mind.

_You are not alone._

Like a caress, warm and beckoning. In its gentleness it was a mark left by the unexpected complementing nature of Erik’s unwilling yearning and Charles’s sincere offering.

_You are not alone._

Erik knew that Charles had meant that—how could he not know, when the words had been like a warm blanket over his mind, contrasting against the icy water that night? 

And not being alone was terrifying. It brought him one of his greatest fears back. 

It brought him… here. Worse, it brought the others—Charles, Raven, Alex, Hank, Sean—here. 

Because everything Erik touched got wrecked, one way or another, and now he’d dragged all of them into this.

When things went wrong in the submarine, Shaw had captured all of them. Erik had been so, so close to killing Shaw, to giving him the death that an animal like him deserved. And then… then Shaw had turned tables on them, captured them.

And then he somehow had released Emma Frost and brought her here.

There was a noise on the door of his cell, and Erik scrambled from where he was lying on the floor. His movements were slow and uncoordinated, commanded by pain and tiredness. The door was opened to reveal a guard there—it was not Shaw or Emma Frost, and the relief that brought could have knocked him off his feet—he looked like a simple, hopeless human, and Erik wasted no time.

Gathering his strength, he threw himself against the guard. He was weak, but he still knew very well how to take a life, and he still wanted very much to escape. His movements were fueled by the rage and, yes, a sliver of hope. 

The guard had no time to react. In one second, Erik threw himself against the other man, and both of them toppled to the floor. Erik climbed on top of him, using his right knee to dig against the soft area of his abdomen, earning a pained gasp. 

Then Erik had his hands around the guard’s neck, squeezing, feeling the cartilage of the trachea under his thumbs, hearing the way the man was wheezing—perhaps trying to shout, to ask for help—and then almost gasping. Erik paid no mind to what that meant beyond the frantic thought of _getting out_. 

“No help will come for you,” Erik said, squeezing harder—not that it made any difference, at that point—and staring at the widened and teary eyes beneath him. 

It didn’t matter what would happen after, help would not come—not for this one man who was helping keep all of them prisoners, a mere _human_.

And as he said that, Erik moved one of his hands—the other continued on his neck, pressing down—to the side of the guard’s head, grabbing at the hair there. After that, he did the same with his other hand, now grabbing the man’s head with both hands and bashing it against the floor with a dull sound. Once, twice, thrice. The surface beneath him became at first smudged, then wet with blood. Still Erik didn’t stop. He lost count of how many times he repeated the movement—a slightly muffled, wet noise, now reached the air every time the man’s head connected with the floor. 

The eyes beneath him now were vacant. 

Erik let go of the man, looking around, seeing that he wasn’t—

As the curtains of rage parted before his eyes, Erik noticed that he wasn’t surrounded by plastic. Not anymore.

Coldness crept up his spine, as he realized that there was nothing made of plastic around him—his cell had a normal, steel door.

Steel that he could see, but couldn’t _feel_.

“Oh, Sugar, it’s always delightful when you find out.”

The voice was inside his mind, like Charles’s had been, on that night, but this felt _nothing_ like Charles. Instead of warmth and gentleness, it felt like icicles digging into his brain.

“A touch on your mind, and _voilà_ , your senses are under my command.”

Then a face appeared in front of him, to accompany the voice. As Emma frost revealed her presence there, Erik felt all of his muscles being locked into place, all control over his body slipping away, the only thing he still could was blinking. He felt hyper-aware of the body beneath him—unmoving, still warm.

He wanted so badly to move—to reach out, snap her neck—but his body didn’t obey him, all commands from his brain were stopped by invisible tendrils coiled around his limbs. He wanted to call the metal, but he couldn’t feel it, none of it.

Emma was dressed in white, and the red in her clothes—some of it also on her blond hair—told Erik that she’d been there _all along_. All the time, when he had been thinking of escaping, she had been there. 

“Exactly, Erik,” she said, smiling, “it’s hard to surprise a telepath, you know? So I have to live surprises in the minds of others. And I have another one for you. Look down.”

Erik did, or, rather, Emma made him look down… 

_And oh Gott—Gott, no, please._

The face beneath him, pale except for the bruises and the blood… the red hair mixed with the blood beneath his head, forming a sanguine and grotesque halo…

_Sean, no! I didn’t…_

“A touch on his mind,” she gestured at Sean’s broken body, “and no high pitched screams could escape his mouth. But I can assure you that he screamed a lot inside his head.”

Once again, Erik tried to break her grip, to move, to use the metal all around him, but neither his body or his gift replied to his command, to his _plea_.

“You really got attached, didn’t you?” Emma asked, tilting her head, her icy blue eyes boring into Erik’s, “is that a tear, Erik? Are you crying for the boy? I never thought you had it in you. You didn’t cry for the others…”

_Mein Gott… had he—had he done the same to Charles?_

There was a laugh, then. It was everywhere—in the air, inside his head, it sounded so loud, and Erik wished he could _move_ , could do anything to stop that laugh…

“You always think that,” Emma said, “always ask yourself whether or not your dear Charles died by your hand. You never remember what happened when I brought him here.”

Then there were flashes—the submarine, the coin, Charles asking Erik to stop, screaming at the top of his lungs…

Erik didn’t stop.

“It’s your fault, you know?” Emma said.

The images continued… Charles, passing out and then Shaw recovering control of his body…

“And Sebastian thanks you for that. What he made you, that monster that you so well,” she glanced down at Sean’s body, “is what guaranteed his survival. He _made you_ , Erik. You can’t fight against your creator.”

_...there is so much more…_

_Everything._

_You are not alone._

“You believe what you want,” Emma said, “your precious Charles’s broken mind is great to play with. I admit, a lot of the wreck was caused by the coin, and I had to put some parts of his mind together again.”

Now Erik could feel more tears running down his cheeks, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. No, please, he couldn’t have done that—not to Charles’s brilliant mind, no… 

“Of course, I am putting those parts together as I see fit. I doubt he will believe the same things by the time I am done with him.”

 _You are not alone_.

But he was. More than he had ever been before. He had been the instrument to bring loneliness and destruction to his own life. Again.

“I will give you the choice that I always give you. I can make you forget everything, and you’ll never have to go through this again. No more pain, no more suffering. _No more guilt_. All you have to do is say yes, and it will all be gone.You and Charles might even get to be together by the time I’m with him. What do you say?”

Even more alone he would be, however, if he chose oblivion. He wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t be a coward… if he forgot, it would be like all of that had never existed at all.

No. 

He would find a way—somehow—of changing this, of… he wouldn’t forget, wouldn’t abandon Charles like that.

 _You are not alone_.

He wouldn’t forget that.

Erik looked at Emma, hoping that the look in his eyes could convey all the hatred he felt.

“No,” he said. Or tried to say. It made no difference, she heard the thought anyway.

“I thought you’d say that. You always do,” she shrugged, “it’s all the better when you get to find out what you did again, and again, and again…”

The last thought he had was of Charles showing him the memory of Mama.


End file.
